


If I Need to Rearrange My Particles (I Will For You)

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Human Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), M/M, Pack Family, Tattoos, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 08:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: There's something different about Stiles and Scott wants to find out what that is.





	If I Need to Rearrange My Particles (I Will For You)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [snoopypez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez) for Ameri-picking and beta-work! Title from the song 'Particles' by Nothing but Thieves.

There’s something different about Stiles. Scott can’t pinpoint it precisely, can’t stroke his finger along his seams and find the gaps, but Stiles feels _larger_ than he used to, somehow, and it’s weirding Scott out. Stiles can be quiet, but now it’s a silence that feels oppressive. Stiles has frequently had the capacity to be loud, but now he’s a cacophony. Stiles has been a mixture of barely restrained fury, excitability, and nervous energy since Scott has known him, and now there’s precious little restraint. 

It’s a Saturday and Scott cycles to Stiles’ house because they said they’d study for the chemistry pop quiz Harris is definitely springing on them during the week. Actually, Scott said they’d study and Stiles muttered something about having bigger mouths to feed. It’s an abnormally warm fall day, the sun makes Scott’s skin itch, and he can feel a pool of sweat in the hollow of his throat, a rivulet down the back of his neck. Scott parks his bike by Stiles’ jeep, doesn’t bother to lock it up because no one’s ever stolen anything from the sheriff’s yard; he and Stiles tested that two summers in a row with increasingly expensive and elaborate objects. He rubs his arm over his forehead the second he takes off his helmet and lets himself into the house.

The front room is in chaos. There’s a jagged rip along the couch upholstery, a broken lamp lies precariously over the coffee table, and there are ripped papers everywhere.

Scott feels his chest starting to go tight, wills himself not to slip into an asthma attack. “Stiles?”

There’s a whimpering sound from the kitchen, so Scott casts his eyes around for a weapon, spots a baseball bat up against the TV unit. He grabs it, walks softly and carefully to the kitchen door. When he looks in, not sure what he’s expecting – his mind leaps between the extremes of a mountain lion like the ones that have been seen in the Preserve, maybe, or a stray dog – he’s perplexed by Stiles, sitting under the kitchen table with his head in his hands.

“Stiles?” Scott asks again, gentler, quieter. 

Stiles sucks in a few choky breaths, looks up with red-rimmed eyes. Scott crawls under the table with Stiles and feels the air burst out of him as Stiles pushes him down to the ground, proceeds to nuzzle into his neck, his shoulder, sobs still wracking his body. Stiles holds him down, hands against his wrists, climbs on top of him, and Scott has no idea, not the faintest of clues what’s happening. 

He and Stiles have tussled before, but not like this, and Scott’s entire body thrums at being pressed to Stiles, chest to chest, toe to tip. He has a whole body awareness of Stiles like this and his hormones kick high into gear, tell him to _enjoy_ this contact. Stiles licks Scott’s neck and Scott sincerely hopes Stiles is too distracted to feel how he’s hard in his jeans. 

Scott lies there, weighted down, as Stiles mumbles nonsense. He’s worried if he moves he’ll exacerbate things. Nothing Stiles is saying makes any kind of sense, is disjointed and slurred, and the only words Scott hears clearly are ‘full moon’ and ‘control’. Is it a new kind of drug? An overdose? But Stiles isn’t _like that_. He drinks occasionally and hates having to take his meds and has half-formed ideas about becoming a cop like his dad when he’s older so he wouldn’t be jeopardizing that. 

“What’s going on?” Scott asks, pressing a calming hand along Stiles’ spine. “Did something happen?” 

It’s not the cleverest question Scott’s ever asked; something has clearly happened, but Stiles has never liked direct confrontation and does better with prompts rather than interrogation. Stiles sucks in more deep breaths, strokes a hand through Scott’s hair. His whole body loosens and he rolls off Scott, pink blush the deepest Scott’s ever seen it in the hollows of his cheeks. He glances up at Scott and his eyes are _glowing_. 

Scott scoots back on his hands and elbows, collides with the table leg. Stiles’ eyes have looked golden before, but not like _this_.

“Stiles?” Scott asks again, the querying tone completely different from before. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“I’m a werewolf,” Stiles says, five expressions competing on his face; fear, horror, certainty, embarrassment, and… pride? Is that _pride_? “I’ve been turned into a werewolf, Scotty. It happened a couple weeks ago. I still went into the woods, when you said you couldn’t come. I went and I got bit.”

Scott’s about to call him on his bluff and then he begins to transform, right before Scott’s eyes. His brow shifts, his ears elongate, his teeth lengthen into fangs. He loses hair in some places, gains it in others. He’s one of the ugliest, weirdest, Jim Hensonesque, grotesque creatures Scott’s ever seen and Scott is fascinated. 

“Holy shit, you’re a werewolf,” he confirms. Scott wriggles forward, tentatively touches Stiles’ face. “What was with the cuddle attack?”

Stiles frowns – or, at least, Scott thinks it’s a frown. His voice has gone breathy, surprised. “I think you’re my anchor.”

“What?”

“My thing that keeps me human. The tether to my control. The full moon’s tomorrow and I’ve been struggling all day, but then you came, and suddenly, I can do this. I can transform at will. So far it’s been whenever my body feels like it.”

“That’s why you keep taking bathroom breaks at school.”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Wow. I thought you were eating too many dairy products again.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “That too. So, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the whole werewolf deal, but I think Derek should know that you’re my anchor.”

“Derek?”

“Derek Hale. You remember the Hales, don’t you? They lived in the preserve a few years ago, before their house burned down,” Stiles says. Scott squints. This is something he knew once, possibly, a long time ago. But it wasn’t important so he catapulted it out of his memory banks.

“Anyway, Derek’s like my werewolf Yoda.”

“You know that means nothing to me.”

“He’s my growly, prowly mentor. He’s the one who’s teaching me how to wolf.”

“Is he good?”

“The jury’s still out on that one, but it’s not like he’s evil. It was his Uncle Peter who bit me and Derek arranged to have him locked up in Eichen House.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?”

Stiles avoids his eyes, a sure sign he’s going to say something sincere and possibly painful. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t wanna scare or worry you, and I didn’t wanna put you in danger, and I didn’t wanna lose you, Scott.”

“You’d _never_ lose me.”

Scott crawls out from under the table and shakily stands. He holds his hand out for Stiles, who takes it with a fond look on his face, like he’s never wanted to admit he doubted Scott’s friendship in the face of adversity. Scott reels him in for a half-hug, remembering how terrified Stiles had seemed earlier. 

“I can’t believe you being a werewolf makes so much sense. I was wondering what’s up, but, yeah, Stiles Stilinski Teenage Werewolf checks out.” 

“You’re lucky it’s not you too. What if you hadn’t blown me off for sleep?”

“I can’t even imagine.”

 

*

There’s something different about Stiles. It isn’t that he’s growing his hair out, although Scott sometimes still double-takes when he watches Stiles in his periphery. It isn’t that he’s generally calmer and more centered in his energy levels but infinitely more stressed in his overall approach to life and its various activities. It isn’t even that he’s become far more touchy-feely over the past year, leaning into Scott’s space with increased regularity, initiating their custom hand-shake almost every time they meet up or part, casually placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder or knee depending on their positions. 

It’s all this and more. It’s how he’s learning how to control the split in his personality between human and wolf, how he’s becoming more of a protector than he ever was before, how he’s working hard on finding other ways of channeling his power so that he doesn’t devolve into an aggressive, domineering asshole. He’s had his _moments_ , but that’s all it’s been, and Scott can tell when Stiles is clawing back at his basest urges. 

Derek says as an aside that he attributes Stiles’ growth entirely to Scott’s presence, which is flattering, but also more about Derek riling Stiles up than truth-telling, because they have one of the most sarcasm-laden, mutually antagonistic friendships Scott’s ever witnessed. If he hadn’t also witnessed them save each other’s lives on a couple of occasions he’d probably think they’re mortal enemies. Still, Scott’s seen Stiles when he and Scott have been separated for a week – Scott had been forced to go visit his dad – and he can’t deny that Stiles copes better when they’re close. It would concern Scott, if part of him didn’t like it so much. He doesn’t like how fragile he can sometimes be, how he feels like he’s a liability; with his failing lungs and his all too human strength and his supreme lack of supernatural faculties. The ability to ground Stiles, to lend him some of his steadiness – it gives Scott purpose that never feels like a burden. 

It’s a Wednesday and Scott’s hosting dinner for what can only loosely be termed a pack. With their alpha Peter behind bars and hopefully undergoing much-needed therapy, Derek and Stiles have gathered other people of a supernatural persuasion into their fold. There’s Malia, who spent most of her youth as a coyote and who all of them, but especially Scott, have been helping adjust to human life, Derek’s sister Cora who arrived from South America two months ago, a younger kid named Liam that Peter bit shortly after he bit Stiles, and Scott’s boss Alan, who was emissary to the Hale pack and has been teaching Scott some druidic lore and magic – and wasn’t that a huge surprise? Joining them is Scott’s mom and Stiles’ dad, because they found out about the whole werewolf thing about three weeks after Scott did and they’ve been over-protective ever since. 

“Want me to make a salad?” Stiles asks, surveying Scott’s countertop. Scott’s gotten a whole bunch of savory pastries and chips and dip because they’re what disappeared first last time. 

Scott nudges into his side. “Are you planning on eating any of it?”

“Me? Hell no. But I wanna force-feed my dad baby spinach and other fortifying greens.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “You know he hides pieces of romaine under my fruit bowl, right? That when I cleaned up last time I found five neatly stacked pieces of kale under the place setting? Slip your greens into egg and bacon casseroles, he’ll never notice.”

Stiles rubs at his forehead, smiles at Scott, wry. “You’re the master strategist in this pack for this very reason.” He spins, leans back against the counter, gazes at Scott as he gets glasses ready. “Deaton says you have all the makings of an excellent emissary. Is that what you want?”

“It could be. Alan’s told you about the pack unification that occurs with an emissary, right? We could work to redistribute Peter’s alpha power among the pack, shift the hierarchy.”

Stiles frowns, the annoyance he feels with Alan creeping into his tone. “I still don’t get why _he_ isn’t capable of that.”

“He swore a fealty to the original Hale pack. He’s compromised. There are always consequences to magical actions, you know that by now,” Scott says, pressing his hand onto Stiles’ forearm in their now customary sign of comfort.

“I just don’t want you having to get any deeper into this than necessary.”

“I’m already in this over my head, Stiles. I was the second you scent-marked me for the first time, pressed into your floor. Better I find a way to swim around than slowly drown feebly trying to reach the surface.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. Still sucks, though.”

“Because you wish everything was normal?”

“Because I’m usually pathetically glad it’s not.”

Scott can never get used to how honest Stiles is now; far more than he ever was when they were younger. Stiles constantly used to bottle things up and refuse to share. Scott had no idea his mom was dying until Noah told him, gently letting Scott know that Stiles would need his support. He didn’t know Stiles suffered from panic attacks until Stiles told him that a few months ago. And he didn’t know Stiles’ grandad and namesake was still alive, let alone living in a nursing home a few towns away. Stiles trusts in him now in ways he didn’t completely before – though he says it was never about not trusting Scott, more about not trusting himself. 

The doorbell rings. Stiles leans in to hug Scott before he answers; a ritual they’ve developed to help manage stress. It’s not that their loosely formed pack causes pain, but it absolutely causes frustration, and while it’s good practice for Stiles to deal with these annoyances for his emotional regulation, he relies on Scott to help keep him in check. For Scott, it’s different. He leans into the comfort of it, yes, this warm, quiet place they’ve carved for themselves. But he also longs for Stiles’ touch. Longs to hold him close and never let go. Has whole fantasies of pressing against Stiles whenever he wants, and giving and taking in equal measure. He doesn’t precisely know when it started. He first realized he could be attracted to Stiles the day Stiles confessed he was a werewolf, but at that point it formed a separate understanding in his head – Stiles was his best friend and oh hey Stiles is attractive. Now the two are inextricably intertwined. It’s an unrequited crush and Scott can deal with it. 

“Scott!” Malia exclaims, before tackling him in a fierce hug. She smiles at him with extra teeth. “I made a friend today named Lydia.”

“Lydia Martin?” Stiles asks, popping his head through the kitchen door, eyes wide.

“Yeah! You know her?”

“He’s been in love with her forever,” Scott explains. He ignores the stab of pain that accompanies that statement. 

“Not in love,” Stiles amends. “In awe of. Infatuated with.”

Scott goldfishes, stares at Stiles, who’s rubbing the back of his neck and blushing. “You used to say it was love.”

Stiles sweeps an exaggerated hand. “I was young and foolish then.”

“It was last year.” 

“Yeah, like I said. Haven’t you noticed how adult and serious I am now?”

“You are?” Malia says, and Scott doesn’t know if it’s a joke or not. She’s gotten very good at perfecting an inscrutable tone of voice. “Lydia said she’d take me shopping. Would that be okay?”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Scott says, just as Stiles nods vigorously. “I’m so proud of you, Malia.”

Malia grins again, this time softer and sweeter. “I am too.”

The rest of their clan of misfit toys arrives. Liam starts up a conversation with Scott about his reaction when Stiles told him the truth, which Scott thinks means they’re going to gain another human member soon in the shape of Liam’s best friend Mason. Stiles and Derek get into a well-worn argument about how many backflips is too many – weirdly Stiles is the one against backflips, but Scott knows that’s because he’s landed in one too many ditches. Cora watches them and acts as a referee. And Alan sits in the corner eating taquitos, looking like he wishes he’d checked if Noah and Melissa were going to be there from the very start before he agreed to come.

*

There’s something different about Stiles. He’s started to gaze at Scott whenever he seems to think Scott won’t notice, his eyes sweeping over him whenever they’re in crowded rooms or in darkened theaters. Their pack has grown now – and they are a pack, Scott’s work as an emissary in training has ensured that – but Scott will still turn around in his kitchen to find Stiles’ eyes trained solely on him. ‘Uncomfortable’ is not the word for what Scott feels in these situations. There is a level of discomfort, _in his pants_ , but yeah, uncomfortable isn’t what comes to mind. 

But unfortunately Scott’s pretty sure that Stiles is only looking at him because he’s concerned about the concept of magic wielding Scott rather than the other way around. Once again, Stiles frames it as not trusting in the magic rather than not trusting in Scott, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. 

It’s a Sunday and the pack has been workshopping tattoo designs, because Alan suggested they could imprint a protective ward into a design each of them could wear, and Cora said they were all the squarest little rectangles who would never have the courage. They’ve narrowed the options down to an ouroboros around their wrists, a simple black band around their upper arms, and a spiral at their ankles – not the full triskelion because that’s only for Derek and Cora, but a singular spiral that Mason affectionately named Snailey. There were a few other contenders. Liam suggested little wolves climbing up their arms, Lydia wanted a deliberately confusing math equation that added to 42, and Boyd suggested a tree of life. 

“Will you hate me if I told you I don’t want a tattoo at all?” Stiles asks Scott as an aside. He’s perfected the art of speaking in a tone only Scott will hear. Considering all of Stiles’ suggestions had been terrible, Scott is not even slightly surprised by this revelation. 

“I won’t hate you, but I will be disappointed in you,” Scott says, half joking, half very much not.

“Can you blame me for not wanting to mar this beautiful, flawfree skin?”

Scott makes a show of giving Stiles a once-over, his eyes lingering on different spots; his arms, his chest, his legs. Stiles is more muscular than he used to be, but only slightly. Compared to Derek he still looks like a gangly teen. A wonderfully proportioned gangly teen that Scott has imagined in many different positions above and below him. Heat rises up his chest and neck as he looks at Stiles, his heart beats double-speed, and suddenly Scott is all too aware that Stiles can hear that, is awash in his chemosignals, must be able to tell how Scott’s reacting. 

“Scotty, I –” Stiles starts, just as Scott says, “Stiles, it’s not...”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Stiles ducks his head, assesses the room. Everyone else is caught up in their own conversations, gathered a few yards from them. Stiles takes Scott’s wrist and leads him from the room, up the stairs. 

When they’re in Scott’s room, Stiles closes the door. He knows that activates a seal that casts silence – so no one outside the room can hear them. It’s a definitive action that indicates they’re going to be engaging in the kind of conversation Scott’s been blissfully avoiding. 

“I think we should talk about this,” Stiles says, crossing his arms and gesturing with his left hand between them.

Scott hunches his shoulders. “And what will we say?”

“I don’t know. Sorry? I forgive you? I’ll try to stop accidentally influencing you into attraction through our psychic bond?”

Scott takes a step back. “You think I’m influencing you?”

Stiles reaches forward. “What? No! I’m influencing you.”

Scott rolls his head around, sits on his bed. He doesn’t even know where to begin. “Okay, let’s try this again.” He pats the bed next to him, looks pointedly from the bed to Stiles and back again to make his request clear. Stiles sits down, awkward and taking up too much space. “Talk to me.”

“Lately you’ve been looking at me like you want to eat me up, which is weird, because I’m the big bad wolf. But I think it’s an unintended side-effect of our emissary-pack bond. You’re relaying my own feelings back to me, in a feedback loop.”

“First of all, you’re the wolf in sheep’s clothing, not the one that’ll huff and puff. Second, if this was true, don’t you think I’d be making eyes at everyone in this house? You don’t see me trying to rub my whole body up against Derek whenever possible, do you?”

“Derek would rip you limb from limb and then store you in precious artefact boxes in his vault.”

“That’s what he’d do to you. Derek would wrap _me_ up in cotton wool and put me on display in his loft.”

Stiles blinks down at his hands, gives a half-smile. “Okay, point.”

“Magic doesn’t work the way you think it does. There can be negative consequences, sure, but intent matters. And I would know if something had gone awry. Whatever it is we’re feeling, we’re both feeling it on our own.”

The enormity of his words only hit Scott a second later. Stiles wants him the way he wants Stiles. This is an entirely requited crush. It doesn’t seem possible, that Scott could be this lucky. He’s been half-terrified of Stiles leaving him ever since he realized how much power he has as a wolf, been convinced that he would one day turn around and reject Scott in the name of protection. But whenever it’s come to those moments, if anything, Stiles has clung tighter. 

Stiles glances at him, heat and a golden flare in his gaze. “So you wanna rub up on me, huh?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s a passing thought I have, every time we’re in the same room, whenever you touch me, sometimes when we’re video chatting.”

“Passing?”

“Fleeting. It’s mere minutes of imagination.”

Stiles grins, wolfish, starfishes on the bed. “Okay, give it your best shot.”

Scott pounces on him, pressing him into his covers, moving until they’re chest-to-chest. He nuzzles under his chin, licks his clavicle, snuffles into the sensitive skin under his ear. Stiles arches up into him, moans deep and long as Scott sucks a hickey into his neck. Scott takes his time kissing trails over all the parts of Stiles he can reach, loving how Stiles rakes a hand through his hair, how he writhes beneath him. 

“Can I tattoo your mark on me?” Stiles asks, after Scott has kissed him senseless and they’re wrapped around each other. Scott wants to do more, but is painfully aware the rest of the pack is downstairs. They’ve already been gone too long and he wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a knock on the door at any second. 

“I guess you could. Alan never said the tattoos had to be the same, it’s just what we suggested as a pack.”

“Whenever anyone asks me what my tattoo is I’ll come up with alternate answers. It’s the first bruise I got as a werewolf that healed within two hours. It’s the milky way. It’s a cloud.”

“Not a single person will believe you. Everyone will know it’s a love-bite.”

“Hmm, maybe you could give me one in a less-exposed place, and that can be where I get the tattoo?”

“Can’t be anywhere too sensitive,” Scott warns.

“I’m a super-strong werewolf, there isn’t a sensitive spot on me,” Stiles returns. 

So Scott starts a tickle-war that sees Stiles laughing until he cries and giving a sweet and tiny ‘awoo’. 

*

There’s something different about Stiles. With his hair in disarray, a deep pink blush rising up his neck and in the hollows of his cheeks, and his eyes half-lidded, he looks more like a contented cat than a werewolf. It’s a good look on him. He’s playful like this, the stress and panic of dealing with supernatural crises at bay. Scott feels that same sense of relaxation, wrapped up in Stiles’ arms, holding him close. Like this, nothing can hurt them. 

As a pack they’ve been growing stronger, but that means the trials and tribulations they’ve been facing have been stronger too. It scares Scott, but with his growing knowledge of druidic lore, with his ever-increasing skills in the arcane, with the pack bond in effect and an extra boost of power shared equally among the pack, he knows they’re challenges they can meet, together.

It’s a Friday night, a month after they started dating. They’re shirtless in Scott’s bed, having taken time to fool around and just _be_. 

“I’m really glad you’re my anchor,” Stiles murmurs, rubbing his thumb along Scott’s spine. “I don’t know how I could’ve handled any of this without you.”

“You still would’ve had me, even if I weren’t your anchor,” Scott counters, splaying his hand over Stiles’ chest and breathing in sync with him. 

“I was planning on _never_ telling you,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

Scott peers at him. “You think I wouldn’t have noticed my best friend disappearing for three nights every month? The exhausted dark circles under your eyes? The deep-seated anxiety and fear in every line of your expression? I would have worked it out.”

“And what would you have done?”

“What I did; rearrange everything I have to make us still fit together. Just like you would for me.”

Stiles’ eyes go soft -- that gentle, warm expression that Scott has realized is reserved solely for him. “I would do anything for you. I love you.”

Scott doesn’t understand how his heart skips at that. He hasn’t doubted that over this past month. It shouldn’t surprise him at all. Somehow, every nerve jumps regardless, has his chest going tight – but in a good way, a way that makes him feel warm all over. 

“I love you too,” Scott says, before pressing a kiss against Stiles’ lips; a kiss that’s a promise and a guarantee and a vow.


End file.
